


Come A Little Closer

by stuckybarnes



Category: Deadpool (Comics), Deadpool (Movieverse), Deadpool - All Media Types, Spider-Man (Comicverse), Spider-Man - All Media Types
Genre: Angst, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Author Is Sleep Deprived, BAMF Peter Parker, Cuddling & Snuggling, Deadpool being Deadpool, Developing Friendships, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Fluff, Fluff and Angst, Friends to Lovers, Friendship, Friendship/Love, Humor, Hurt Peter Parker, Hurt Wade Wilson, Hurt/Comfort, I Wrote This Instead of Sleeping, Inappropriate Humor, M/M, Peter Parker Needs a Hug, Peter Parker is a Mess, Peter is a Little Shit, Sleepy Cuddles, Wade Wilson Needs A Hug, Wade Wilson is a Good Bro
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-09-29
Updated: 2020-05-21
Packaged: 2020-11-01 11:34:51
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 3
Words: 3,289
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20814470
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/stuckybarnes/pseuds/stuckybarnes
Summary: To sleep beside someone is trust without words.It’s innate and ineffable and profound and extremely, incredibly, stupidly vulnerable.Or,Wade has a theory that is entirely too precious to ignore.





	1. Prologue

**Author's Note:**

> This idea came to me at some godforsaken hour of the night and I physically had no choice but to write it. Enjoy! We're in for a fluffy and angsty ride!! 
> 
> I play hard and fast with canon sources, so I’m incorporating bits of information from all sorts of comics/movies/shows. Spidey is 18+, but other than that, imagine him however y'all want :)

A special kind of trust is born the first time you knowingly and willingly fall asleep beside another person.

The weakest you will ever be is during sleep, and when you go to bed beside another person, you trust they will not kill you, not hurt you, not touch you where it isn’t wanted.

It’s innate and ineffable and profound and extremely, incredibly, stupidly _vulnerable. _

To sleep beside someone is trust without words. 

This conscious realization comes to Wade first while he’s watching television. All these parents sleeping in the same bed as their infants, and somehow they know not to roll over, they know exactly where not to throw their arm down or bend their leg up. The baby is perfectly safe, perfectly cocooned. They know exactly where their baby is even in the deepest sleep.

Even in hospital dramas. Patients sleeping while loved ones wait in a chair beside them. Comforted knowing someone they love is next to them somewhere, even while they’re bedridden. There isn’t a doubt in their mind that they won’t be harmed while they sleep. And if the visitor is sleeping while the patient is, too? Somehow the visitor is on their toes in an instant if the patient’s vitals change.

It comes to Wade more fully during the many instances of Spider-Man and Deadpool falling asleep on rooftops after Wade was temporarily dead, or Peter was too hurt to swing home before healing a bit. Wade never wanted to leave him alone before his body mended itself enough to defend himself. Turns out, Peter never wanted to leave Wade either. Even if he  can completely heal in minutes.

But during all those times, Spider-Man never really  _moved__._ He never rolled onto Wade when Wade was hurt, and he never had any doubt about knocking the fuck out while Wade was near him.

It’s like those parents and loved ones have the same biological spidey-senses that Spider-Man does.

And  _oh,_ he thinks,  _Webs will get a kick out of that._

And then  _oh, _ he thinks,  _is that true? Why is that so fucking endearing? Is this warmth in my heart or is it cardiac arrest?_

The theory stayed forgotten but nestled somewhere in the back of his mind until the next time they saw each other on patrol.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> first legit chapter! their relationship will progressively, well, progress, throughout each chapter as they become closer and more comfortable with that level of prolonged vulnerability.

The first time Wade has an opportunity arise to test this theory, it’s kind of a bust, because Peter is the one who gets hurt. And that’s the last thing Wade ever wants, like, ever. This is about what happens when _ Deadpool _ gets beat to shit. Not Spider-Man. 

_ Well, _ Wade guesses, _ the same rules can apply regardless of who gets hurt, _ Wade thinks, _ but, fuck that_. Deadpool’s general goal in life is to make sure Spidey’s too-good-for-his-own-good instincts don’t get him killed in the process. 

Shame, too, because they’re just wrapping up patrol when Peter cocks his head, grabs Wade by the waist, and launches them off the roof, swinging to god-knows-where because _ “I hear screaming.” _

Spider-Man is right. There’s _ lots _ of screaming, mainly because some wannabe-Wolverine is slashing his way through Astoria with artificial adamantium claws. They manage to turn the villain’s attention away from the civilians and onto themselves, but not before Peter’s head whips toward the direction of a bawling toddler making grabby-hands to her mother, fighting vertigo and nursing a cut on her leg from the roof that Spider-Man had tossed as many people as possible onto. 

The villain notices the toddler at the same moment Spider-Man does, and Spider-Man lunges for her, holding her against his chest with one hand and swinging toward the man, kicking him in the solar plexus, and sweeping the baby onto the roof with her mother. 

This works remarkably well, save for the fact that just before villain got the breath knocked out of him, he managed to slice a long sweeping cut across Spider-Man’s side.

It’s like Wade can see it in slow motion. The gasp that Spider-Man makes, more annoyed than anything before he looks down at himself. His suit splits in a jagged line, and the blood pools across his skin like a dam has broken, fast and raging. 

“Oh, I’m in trouble,” Peter nods to himself, hands trying to cinch the fabric to no avail, “Okay. You,” he sticks a bloody finger at a rattled civilian on the roof, “call 9-1-1. Stay right here. I have to go try and not die.”

He all but stumbles down the roof and onto the ground again, but if he was planning on helping Wade it doesn’t work; he slumps down against a construction cone, suddenly exhausted. 

“‘Pool, do you mind…” he’s gesturing at the villain, still trying to catch his breath, but Spider-Man doesn’t even finish his sentence before Wade stomps sure-footed toward fake-Wolverine, unsheathes one katana, and lances it through his shoulder. There’s a sickening crunch that echoes the empty streets as Deadpool’s blade goes through bone and nestles several inches into the asphalt. Wade takes a greedy inhale as the villain cries out. His mask stretches around a smile. “I’ll be coming back for that later, so don’t fucking move.” 

Peter staggers up, drags his feet to the villain with one side of his body eerily immobile, and webs him to the ground. And then drops to his knees. Wade’s eyes widen and he pushes down every inch of panic he has to start delegating, crouching down beside his fallen companion and assessing the damage. He grimaces, gingerly peeling away jagged corners of Spider-Man’s suit. It’s _ big. _ A sweeping, slashing cut that goes from upper thigh to mid navel along his right side.

_ Pull that torn fabric away, no, I don’t care if I can see your panties, you don’t want anything dirty touching the cut. Wanna web yourself a loincloth while you’re at it? Will that make you feel better? I mean, I don’t mind if you don’t - alright, fine, I’m done teasing, sorry, sorry. _

_ Are your webs sterile? They come out of you, right? Okay, good, web up your entire side. Make it tight. You can’t lose any more blood. Christ, that’s big. Not too deep. But holy mother of fuck, is that a long cut. He really got you there, Spidey. _

Satisfied that the webs have staunched the blood flow, and about sixty percent sure that Peter won't pass out, Wade throws him as carefully as possible over his shoulder, keeping careful so as not to agitate the injury. Still, Spider-Man lets out a faint cry, caught in the back of his throat like he bit down on his tongue partway through. 

“I’m sorry, baby boy, just a few more minutes.” Wade finds himself rubbing absentminded arches across the back of Spider-Man’s leg as he carries him. 

He climbs up onto the roof of a nearby movie theater and lays Spider-Man down onto the cool ground right behind the tall ledge - the surest to be out of sight. Peter tips his head up to inspect the wound. His webbing has turned red, but no blood is seeping through, so they both consider it a small and disgusting victory. 

Peter props himself up on his elbows, curving his body and bending his leg up curiously before he immediately hisses, tossing his head back as he paces his breathing. 

Wade sets his leg back on the ground and lays down beside him, placing Peter’s hands over the parts of the cut where his body receives the most movement. “Put pressure on these. Yeah, good. And stop fuckin’ moving.” Wade tries to sound angry. He thinks he fails. 

“I don’t think you’re gonna need stitches - it’s not too deep, just big. The webs are keeping the skin nice and secure. So you’ve just gotta wait until that bad boy starts to heal up a bit.”

Peter nods weakly. “Thanks.”

Wade hums approvingly, and just like that, he’s inspecting and knocking on a glass panel in the roof before dropping through it. Peter blinks, stares in disbelief for a moment.

He’s too tired to care more than that, and he lets his head drop back down, shutting his eyes. It’s not like him, but maybe Deadpool just... left. Peter frowns, wiping blood-slicked webbing fibers off on his chest before placing his hands back over himself. His eyes are falling shut. Somewhere in his chest, he wishes Wade was still sitting beside him.

Seconds or minutes later, Wade is pulling himself back up through the window with a Gatorade bottle and a soft pretzel from the closed concession stand. He shuts the window with his boot and Peter stirs awake instantly. “Salt. Electrolytes. Drink. Your healing factor needs a helpful kick in the ass right now. Also, food.” 

Wade shuffles behind him, helping Peter into a leaning position, resting against Wade’s chest. He didn’t realize how thirsty he was, how his mouth tasted of metal. How hungry he was. He spits the first few sips out just rinsing his mouth. 

Wade lets him sleep after that, shifting them so that Wade’s back is against the tall roof ledge, and Peter is laying against his front. He moves the half-eaten pretzel off Spider-Man’s chest, wipes dried blood away from the corner of his mouth, and lowers his mask back down to cover his neck against the autumnal chill in the air. 

Peter doesn’t remember falling asleep, and Wade doesn’t remember when he started counting the rises and falls of his chest, monitoring the color of his skin under the bandage of webbing. He isn't sure how long he stays awake watching him, making sure Spider-Man doesn't move in his sleep (he doesn't) and making sure Wade doesn't accidentally jostle him (he doesn't, either). And finally, Wade must fall asleep, too. 

Or at least, Peter is assuming they both fell asleep, because when he blearily opens his eyes again, his cut is only a dull throb and the sun is yellowing the sky along the cityscape. Only a few cars on the road. It must be just past five in the morning. 

He blinks past the pounding in his head, works on letting yesterday’s events flood back to him. Wade is still asleep, strong arms clasped over Peter’s chest, knees bracketing Peter’s hips, still there, waiting for him, watching over him even in sleep.

Before Peter can think it’s too awkward or scramble away, before he can let the warmth in his chest make it to his brain, he falls back asleep.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> woo! hope y'all enjoyed that! PLEASE leave comments; i thrive off those bad boys.
> 
> ig: petr.prkr  
tumblr: parker-pool


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> it's been a hot second. shit has been wild, fellas. i got a concussion, have been switched around on a bunch of meds that haven't really worked, college is a pain in the ass, and now we're in a pandemic! but i'm back! also, please read the end-notes!!

The second time they end up laying beside each other, Wade is shot during a piss-poor planned money bust. 

They’re in an old factory warehouse, dozens of truck ports and old conveyor belts and shattered windows that let in haphazard light across the gray cement floors. Dust and insulation and packing-peanut debris fill the air and explode in disgusting plumes each time a gun goes off. The massive warehouse had been turned into an extremely lucrative money-forging operation by a local gang in Queens, and they’re putting on a real fight.

Well, they’re actually _ not _ . But when it’s forty-to-two, everything seems like a real fight. And really, it is all Wade’s fault. Peter got about twenty texts from a trigger-happy Wade, and Peter couldn’t _ not _ come help.

It’s minute ten of the fight and they’ve already taken down twenty people. Peter is webbing guys to high-tech currency printers, dangling them from ceilings, webbing wads of fake hundreds over their eyes. Wade is shooting shins and kneecaps and shoulders and cutting arms and ankles; much to his chagrin and to Peter’s warm pride, he’s _ not _ killing people.

By minute fifteen, the number whittles down to twelve gang members left. 

“Getting tired, Web Head?” Wade asks from some distance away as he cuts the finger off a man with a gun aimed at Peter, raising his mask to his nose. 

Peter laughs, ducking under a punch, leaping up to wrap his legs around the gangster’s neck and propelling him to the ground. “Haven’t even broken a sweat, Pool. Keep up,” he says as he webs the man to the floor.

Deadpool grins, blood splattered across his chin and lips. But at minute sixteen, an electrifying tingle shoots down the base of Peter’s neck, and before he can even cross the room to Deadpool, one of the men pops his head up from the shattered windows of the lone warehouse office and fires off dozens of shots from a semi-automatic that plant themselves firmly in and through Wade’s entire body. 

His body barely even jolts from the repeated impact, just stumbles back before swaying and collapsing onto the floor.

So Wade does get shot. But _ shot _ is an understatement. They turned him into a human spaghetti strainer. He was deader than dead. 

Peter doesn’t react right away, but nobody else does either. Instead, he stares at his friend’s body for some seconds, and then tunes in effortlessly to the sounds around him, focusing on the concealed man’s heartbeat before slowly turning to the offender, head low. He curls his lip and the man’s face drops. 

The man in the office can’t react before Peter shoots a web at his gun, snatches it into his own hands, and then throws it back with even more force, hitting him squarely in the forehead. He crumbles to the floor unconscious, and all is silent before the rest of the mob come forward. 

They’re dropping quick enough, and Peter is careful to guide the fight closer and closer to Deadpool, whose body is still pooling blood beneath him, and who also collapsed underneath one of the shattered windows. 

By minute eighteen, Peter disarms them all, maybe a little rougher than he needs to, and webs them to the floor circling a pile of forged bills in the shape of a frowny face. 

He lets his shoulders drop, pushing out a ragged breath before scooping Deadpool’s limp body up more carefully than he would have thought possible. Slow trickles of blood are still dripping from the bullet holes on his chest and head and near the major arteries, and Peter ignores the feeling of the blood squelching between his fingers.

He jumps up through the broken window on the ceiling and lands silently on the roof before swinging them somewhere away from here. He doesn’t realize he started crying until the chill of the air cools his cheeks. He wipes his face against his shoulder in frustration, sniffling. Deadpool isn’t heavy, but the weight of his lifeless body makes Peter tear up with a range of boiling emotions again.

He tries to keep the crying to a minimum as he closes in on his go-to rooftop in Astoria a few miles away, because Peter _ knows _ Wade will wake up, but _ still _. He’s dead right now, disfigured and sticky with thick molasses blood and brain matter. And that really sucks.

Peter lands swiftly on the roof and immediately nestles them in a cramped corner between two equally massive AC and electrical boxes, straddling Wade’s waste loosely as he makes quick work of webbing up every bullet hole he can see. His wrists start to burn and his spinnerets cramp after weaving over eighty patches front and back for forty rounds fired into his friend. 

The sun is setting over them quickly and Peter carefully disentangles himself from Wade. Grateful at least for the warmth the AC and electrical units are providing, Peter curls up beside him in the tight secluded space, allowing himself to stop and watch unblinkingly for several moments. 

Wade’s eyes are open. Peter wonders if he can still see, in some absent part of his mind. He shut them with blood-stained hands. When he registers that he can even _ see _ his eyes, Peter sighs with weary exhaustion. 

“Damn. I’m pretty sure you lost your mask in the fight. Sorry. I... I didn’t even realize when shit hit the fan. I know you don’t like people seeing the scars.” He waits like Wade will answer him. 

“I don’t care about them, though, y’know? They’re just another part of you now. They let you do your job. I know it’s not the same as the stuff that happened to me. I know you don’t like them,” Peter reasons, resting on his side, eyes trained on the still arch of his chest.

“I don’t like how you had to _ get _ them,” Peter says then, absentmindedly flicking rubble out of a bullet hole stuck to the webbing through Wade’s heart. 

“I wish I could give you my mask. So you’d feel more comfortable.” Peter isn’t sure why he’s talking. Maybe when Wade dies, he’s like a coma patient who can still hear. Maybe it’ll help him wake up faster. Or maybe when he’s dead, he’s just _ dead _ until he wakes up again. And the more dead he looks, the longer it takes to make him un-dead.

Peter closes his eyes, curled around Wade’s limp body. If he focuses his powers, he can hear muscle and sinew and veins and arteries string back together beside him. 

It shouldn’t be soothing. 

Wade wakes up with a groan, immediately scrubbing a hand over his face and taking a stark note of the lack of his mask. He looks down at himself, sees dozens and dozens of little patchwork webs knitting closed every single bullet wound he’d gotten. They’re all caked with dry blood that blends in too well with his suit. Other than the residual shot-in-the-head-a-few-times headache, everything seems right again.

He turns to his side when he hears a stutter of breath. Spider-Man is sleeping beside him, pressed to his side, taking in slow breaths. It’s a miracle he remembers his theory right now, but so far, Spider-Man is confirming it. Super close, but not smothering. Curled around every part of Wade’s body like a wiry shield. 

“Hey,” Wade says, his voice hoarse with disuse. _ More like hoarse with death, _ he thinks. His laugh sounds eerily like a death rattle. He swallows, and then, quiet but clearer, “Hey."

Peter wakes instantly, propped up on one elbow and fingers pressed to his palm, the eyes of his mask narrowed and mouth drawn, ready to shoot. He turns to Wade suddenly, peering down at him. Takes a shallow breath. And then a deeper breath, scanning him up and down. “You’re alive. Oh, man.” Peter smiles under his half-raised mask, clutching his belly with relief.

“Probably a lot sooner, thanks to you,” Wade says, nudging him. “Thanks for that, baby boy.”

He bows his head low, horrendously aware of his own bare face, and Peter seems to pick up on it, because he stares at his hands instead. “Yeah. Yeah, of course. What time is it?”

Wade squints his eyes in thought, patting himself down. “Probably under an hour or so after you brought me here.” He can hear the sparse streets, the occasional cricket or laugh from a random stranger down below. “You didn’t have to stay, y’know. I heal.”

Now it’s Peter’s turn to duck his head. “I know. But it’s nice to wake up after stuff like that with someone next to you. We’ve got a bit going with that.” Peter’s lips quirk.

Wade laughs through the warmth in his newly healed heart. “Yeah, we do. Team Getting Knocked on Our Asses and Waiting Until the Other Wakes Up.”

Peter scrunches his nose, cocking his head in mock judgment. “Kinda long for a team name. We might have to workshop it next time you get shot forty-two times.”

Wade feigns offense. “Oh, give me a break, Webs. I’m still fuzzy in the brain. I got shot, you know.” Wade says airily, pointing a knowing finger at him. Peter huffs out a laugh, shoving him softly.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i really hope you guys enjoyed that!!!! i'm sorry for such sporadic updates, but as i summarized in the beginning notes, things have been kind of not-great for me.  
just know that all of y'all are really important to me and i am so appreciative of the audience i have for my writing. i promise i'm going to update my other stories soon; i just want to actually find the time to do so, and be proud of what i come up with.
> 
> to follow me in-between updates:  
instagram: petr.prkr  
tumblr: parker-pool

**Author's Note:**

> As always, comments keep me alive. 
> 
> This is just the prologue, so expect the first chapter soon!!
> 
> ig: petr.prkr


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